The Double Bind
by silver ruffian
Summary: Does John Winchester use the last remaining bullets from the Colt to go after the Demon or to bring peace to one of his sons after both boys are attacked and turned?
1. Chapter 1 Taken

**Summary:** Kate (the vampire from "Dead Man's Blood") convinces a powerful witch to kidnap and torment the brothers after John Winchester shoots Kate's mate with the Colt. Under the witch's spell Sam turns into an inhuman monster and Dean suffers a psychotic break. From there things only get much much worse.

Please review! Let me know if I should continue or if I should put the plot bunny out of its misery. Sleeping pills stuffed inside a carrot should do just fine.

**A/N:** The American Heritage Dictionary defines "double bind" as "A situation in which a person must chose between equally unsatisfactory alternatives; a punishing and inescapable dilemma."

I love the Winchester men, but it's time for some major angst up in here.

**Timeline:** This takes place after "Dead Man's Blood" and before "Devil's Trap."

**Spoilers:** Dead Man's Blood, Devil's Trap

Disclaimer: I don't own "Supernatural" or Sam, Dean, or John, so please don't sue me. Im poor.

And my sister and I once again heartily apologize for hiding in the bushes around Jensen Ackles' house with that tranquilizer gun, and, oh, the duct tape, it was just for emergencies, you understand...

**The Double Bind**

**by Silver Ruffian**

**© 2006**

**Chapter 1 Taken**

_Don't turn your back_

_To the dogs who hound you_

_Don't turn your back_

_Don't show your profile_

_You'll never know_

_When it's your turn to go_

_(Don't Turn Your Back, Blue Oyster Cult)_

"Sam?"

"Oh God, they're coming for us..."

"Sammy!"

Sam can barely feel his brother's hand on his shoulder. He remembers walking into the cabin, dropping his pack onto the bed, and then somehow he's on his knees, pain flaring white hot between his eyes. Dean kneels beside him, but Sam can't really see him. Dean's a vague blur behind the white haze of pain.

"Sam, what's coming for us?"

_Azareth...Azareth..._.

Dean flinches as hot sulfurous breath scorches the hair on the back of his neck. The smell is so strong it threatens to take his breath away, and he breathes thru his mouth, panting in short, sharp bursts. He hears whispered voices curving in the air all around him and senses _something_ is coming, crackling with energy, pushing darkly thru the air behind him.

It never even occurs to him to move away from Sam. Shielding his brother from this thing is an easy decision, one that he would do over and over again with absolutely no regrets, no matter what the outcome. _It's way too late to shag ass, so I might as well get this party started, _Dean thinks. He coughs so hard that he almost doubles over, but he shakily gets to his feet and reaches for the .45 tucked in the back of his waistband. He turns to face whatever the hell this thing is, but he never makes it.

Sam feels the headache suddenly loosen its grip and fall away. His vision clears, and he slowly pushes himself up on one arm. He hears Dean make a strangled, gasping noise. Sam looks around just in time to see his older brother sink to his knees next to the bed, a dazed look on his face.

Sam flinches as a voice inside his head whispers, the sensation like a stiletto slipped into his brain.

_**Don't make me hurt your brother, Sam. Stay here. **_

"Sa-Sam-m...guh...go..._"_ Dean stares blindly in Sam's direction, his breath rattling in his throat. He falls forward on his hands and knees, his forehead brushing against the worn hardwood floor.

The air behind Dean shimmers purplish-black, and impossibly long, slender fingers reach down and grip him underneath his jaw, fingers curving around his throat, yanking him upright back onto his knees. Dean's entire body twitches uncontrollably as soon as he's touched. His eyes roll to white and he goes completely limp. She pulls him back to her, resting the back of his head against her thigh.

_**Hush, boy**, _Azareth whispers, bending her sleek white head to his ear. Her golden eyes take on a reddish tint. **_Ssshhh..._**

Sam backpedals towards the door. His stomach rolls greasily; it takes an effort for him not to vomit from the sulfur odor. He gets to his feet awkwardly, slamming his shoulder against the door frame in his haste and she just stands there, staring at him with those unsettling eyes, one hand holding Dean by the throat. The long purplish black lace dress she wears moves and flows like a living thing. She raises one eyebrow, quirks the corners of her mouth upwards as if to say, _All right, now what? I've got your brother. _

She kneels down behind Dean, She keeps her eyes on Sam, but she doesn't seem too worried about him making a move on her. Sam doesn't doubt that with those hands she could effortlessly wring Dean's neck if she wanted to. He'll move when he has to, and he can only pray to God that when he does he'll be quick enough. He'll have to be.

She steadies Dean with one hand on his shoulder, tilts his head to one side with the other hand.

With his eyes closed, his head cradled in her freakishly long hands, Dean looks like a small sleeping child held by an adult, unbelievably fragile looking. If he were conscious and armed he'd go medieval on her unnatural ass just for that. She kisses the side of his neck with an air of absolute ownership. Her lips pull and tug at his skin, up the taut line of his neck to his earlobe.

The message is clear: he's hers now. Possession is nine tenths of the law, all right, and she can and will do whatever the hell she wants with him. When she straightens up again it's a slow, supremely confident movement. Her eyes never leave Sam, and her unnaturally long fingers remain curled around Dean's throat.

Dean doesn't respond. He doesn't groan, grunt, or snap at her to get her damn hands off him, you frigging bitch freak. He's a rag doll, a marionette with the strings cut. His head lolls to one side in her grip, his arms hang limply at his sides. His eyes are closed and Sam can't even tell if he's breathing or not.

Behind Sam, outside the cabin door, it's bright sunlight and warm breezes outside. What's taking place inside the cabin might as well be on another planet, light years away.

Running would be the smart play. Turn around, get the hell out of there, as fast and as far away as possible.

And that's exactly what he can't do, not without his brother, not whileshe's got her damn handwrapped around Dean's throat.

Sam's throat is raw, his chest aches with every breath he takes. He tells himself that he couldn't run anyway, doesn't have the lungs for it, when in fact he does.

She's smiling, a smug, unpleasant expression, like she knows Sam's not going anywhere, and the bitch is right. He can't, and he won't.

Sam takes a few stumbling steps towards her. She raises her free arm, gestures at him, and right about then the headache slams into him, an ice pick between the eyes, driving him to his knees. The last thing he hears through the darkness that settles over him is the hyena-like sound of Azareth's laughter.


	2. Chapter 2 Connect the Dots

**The Double Bind**

**Chapter 2. Connect the Dots**

I entertain by picking brains

Sell my soul by dropping names

I don't like those, my God, what's that

Oh it's full of nasty habits when the bitch gets back.

(The Bitch Is Back, Elton John)

**Two days ago **

Back in the olden times, in the old countries, they were elegant, with style. Azareth had taken vampyr men and woman as her lovers numerous times. These American vampyr? Bikers and trailer trash, like the leather wearing slut kneeling before her.

Were it not for the six human sacrifices lying placed in a wagon wheel formation on the grass around her, particularly the four children with their throats slashed from ear to ear, Azareth Calamitous would not have bothered to even show up.

Days before, one of Azareth's sister-mates, a misery demon, had been killed by hunters as she enacted vengeance on a human family that defied her. It was inconceivable, but Azareth was unable to scry who the killers were, what they looked like, and where they were. They were being shielded from her somehow. She recognized the meddling interference of the Powers That Be when she saw it. She flew into a rage and dismembered half of her household staff.

"I know who killed your sister," Kate says. She averts her eyes in an insincere gesture of respect. "I know exactly who they are. Where they are."

It was the truth, and sometimes the truth can do more damage than a lie.

The two young ones were brothers, one a few years older than the other. She could smell the family connection. The one in the black pick-up truck was their father.

She had their scent for life. She knew where they were. The problem was the father. Months before he shot and killed Kate's soul mate, Luther, with that special Colt revolver. The father had the gun the last time she saw him.

Hell, as far as Kate knew, the brothers had the Colt, and like the father the sons would use it without hesitation.

Kate loved Luther, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized that she enjoyed being undead more.

She enjoyed having a _life_? Or, an _unlife_?

Damn straight.

She ran after Luther was shot. It was strange, the way his skull had been backlit by this strange white light under his skin after the bullet pierced his forehead, and then he simply flew to pieces.

If she couldn't avenge Luther's death, then she could find someone to do it for her.

The brothers' scents were all over the place where the misery demon had been vanquished. Kate didn't have to be a rocket scientist to put two and two together. She and her crew carjacked a human family of six and sacrificed them in Azareth's name, just to get the ancient hag's attention. They had to make the appropriate gestures, of course.

Kate had to admit that Azareth didn't look so ancient when she finally arrived inside the flesh circle in a slow fade-in of hellish energy. She looked younger than Kate, actually. Tall, slim, wildly blonde, Azareth looked like she was all of twenty three years old, even though Kate knew she was as old as the earth itself. Her face and body kept shifting, changing slightly, as though her image was trying to keep up somehow. She had reddish-gold eyes. The long purplish-black lace dress she wore moved and flowed like angry waves on the ocean.

Her reputation spanned centuries. One of her nicknames was She Who Shall Not Be Named. Another one was simply the Devourer. If she targeted you, you were damned, pure and simple. She might kill you outright if she got bored, but she seldom got bored. But oh my, the way she played with her victims could go on for years and years, through generations and generations of families. You could go insane, or commit suicide to try to escape her tender mercies, and in that case the fun was just beginning.

It was a damn shame, really. The older brother with the dark blonde hair, the one in the brown leather jacket...he would have made the perfect replacement for Luther. There was something wild and dark in those green eyes of his, and she was sure that all he needed was a well-placed nudge in the wrong direction. She could imagine that face and that body in her bed, dazed, gasping and moaning as she took the time to turn him. She and some of the others _could_ have dropped by the brothers' cabin and subdued the boys without hurting them (much). The newest member of the crew was a skinny little Goth runaway named Emma, and she probably would have claimed the younger brother as her own. The basic problems remained the same, though.

The gun.

And the father.

Dad didn't look like the type that would give up easily. And if he got word that Kate and her crew had "adopted" his two darling boys, Kate was pretty sure the bastard would hunt them down to the ends of the earth.

And that damn gun would be the least of their problems.

"All right," Azareth says. She looks bored, slightly insulted to be occupying the same general space with a lowly vampire. "Tell me who and where they are."

High seddity cow, Kate thinks, and smiles.

And if the old man uses the Colt on Azareth, so much the better.


	3. Chapter 3 Hard Freeze

**The Double Bind**

**Chapter 3 Hard Freeze**

_The sky, the sky is crushing you_

_The wall, the walls are touching you too_

_Even the floor is clutching you_

_And all the eyes you ever closed are open,_

_and they're watching you._

_(Asylum Choir, Motorhead)_

They came and went silently around him. Sam lay still and breathed, slowly and easily, it was all he _could_ do, while they examined him. They show special interest in whatever is inside that skull of his. They tap his forehead and thrust fingers in his ears, as though they're trying to find a way in. Flip a hidden switch, solve the puzzle and get lucky, and his head will unhinge and the unsolved mysteries of Samuel Winchester will be revealed.

After a while they get bored and move down his body, turning his shirt and pants pockets inside out. He feels someone grasp his left hand and slowly turn the hand over, flexing the fingers one by one. That hand is placed back down (_on the table?_ Sam wonders. _Is that what I'm laying on?_) and the procedure is repeated with the other hand.

Just beyond his narrow cone of blurred vision he sees what looks like hundreds of flickering yellow pinpoints of light. When one of _them _leaves the room (he can sense a doorway of some sort) air is displaced very so slightly, and the pinpoints move and flicker gently.

_Candles_, he thinks to himself. _Hope they don't burn the place down with me in it frozen like this._

After a while they leave him completely alone and Sam just lays there. His vision is still blurred and he can't see a damned thing. In his mind he can hear Dean say, _Dude, this is some boring shit!_ and he smiles at the thought. He can see the mischievous glint in his big brother's green eyes, sees Dean smiling at him with that infamous lopsided grin of his. Sam wonders if he'll ever see him alive again.

Something passes through the space directly over his eyes and nose, and Sam blinks, which is a welcome change from being frozen in place. As his eyes open again he finds himself staring directly into Jessica Moore's eyes. As soon as he sees her, he knows she's not one of the peaceful dead, and he also knows that it's all his fault.

She stares at him. He stares at her, and he feels his throat hitch. "J-Jess?"

"Hello, Sam."

Her skin is smooth and perfect. Her shoulder length blonde hair is just as soft as he remembers it to be. She's dressed in a long white sleeveless gown, and there's nothing horrific or unnatural looking about her. It's her eyes, thoughSam can see a faint reddish tint to them, and he tries to remember where he's seen that before today. He shakes his head trying to clear it, and the memory's lost in the fog.

Jessica puts one slender hand on his chest, leans forward until they're almost nose to nose. "You left me to die, Sam," she says calmly. "You went off with your no good brother in the middle of the night, and you left me. You dreamed about me dying for days before it happened and you didn't even _try_ to save me."

"Jess, please...I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to happen..."

Jess nods. "It's all right, Sam. I forgive you." She runs her hand up his neck, strokes the side of his face. "You have a funny way of showing affection for the love of your life, but I forgive you."

Sam feels a wave of pressure run down his body, from his head to his toes. He raises his right arm, places it on Jess' shoulder. She bends her head and brushes his lips with hers, then pulls back sharply when he tries to embrace her.

"You can go."

"Go?" Sam sits up on the table.

"Yes. I'd go right now if I were you. I forgive you."

"Jess, when--when I had those dreams about you I–I didn't know what they mean, I didn't think they would come true," Sam stammers. He reaches out to her one with one hand.

She backs away, crosses her arms over her chest. She's standing there with her head down, staring at the floor, and Sam's heart feels like it's about to break in two. He's having a very hard time breathing, and has to make a conscious effort to breathe slowly and deeply.

Even though he feels like breaking down into tears, he tries to calm himself. Surprisingly, the voice inside his head is not his own, but Dean's, and Dean's voice is a low, angry growl: _Don't you dare cry, Sam. Don't you give that bitch the satisfaction of one damn tear..._

So, because he trusts his brother, he doesn't.

"I said leave, Sam. Go. Now."

It's the second time today that someone he loves has told him to abandon them.

Sam doesn't argue with her.

He doesn't say a word.

He lies back down on the table.

Jessica looks at him, and sighs.

The kiss is long and deep. Sam loses himself in the feel of her mouth, her tongue, her hands moving over his neck and shoulders. Jessica explores his face with her fingers, examining his face as though trying to commit his features to memory.

She nuzzles his hair, grasps his earlobe with her sharp teeth and rips it loose with a sideways jerk of her head.

Sam moans deep in his throat, more from grief and guilt than anything else. It hurts like hell, a bright, unexpected lance of pain, but it's nothing compared to the guilt he's feeling. He deserves everything that she could ever do to him, and more.

Jessica digs her fingers into his chest, and her touch burns like hellfire through his shirt, flesh and cloth blackening and sizzling, smoke wafting into the air. She strokes his body with her fingers and leaves long scorch marks in his skin and clothing.

She covers his mouth with hers and for several long moments he's unable to say anything. She slips long slender fingers around his head, striping his skin with finger sized char marks. Sam smells burning flesh and the sharp odor of singed hair. Her tongue slides between his lips and she's all hunger and anger, pulling at him, muffling any apologies he might make to her.

Sam doesn't wonder about the why and how of the moment. He is unable to realize that something is wrong. Jessica is here with him. She was the love of his life, and he let her down. He feels that he betrayed her, and he will gladly suffer all the torments of hell and then some to atone for that.

Sam is not entirely surprised when he feels her teeth sever his tongue.

His back arches from the physical shock of it, and he lets out a low sucking moan as she pulls his tongue back into her mouth and swallows it. She kisses the side of his face, and neatly bites down, pulling his cheek off, exposing his teeth, She pulls her head back and stares at him, smiling sweetly, her teeth flecked with his blood.

He doesn't even flinch when she comes at him again.

o(o)o

_Well, at least I didn't wake up tied to a chair, _Dean thinks dryly._ That gets so old after a while..._

He can feel the hard wood of the table beneath him, but he can't move or even lift a finger. He's not having difficulty swallowing, and his breathing is slow and easy. He wonders if his neck was broken, but then instinct tells him that this is more than likely something magical.

He _is_ becoming increasingly irritated at all the touchy-feely crap, though. If he could speak, somebody would surely get cussed out. He'd bitch slap the perpetrator if he could move. His vision is still blurred, focus all shot to hell.

_Sammy_, Dean thinks, _I hope you shagged ass outta there. Don't wanna see you around here, bro'._

As it is, he lays there like a child's discarded doll while whoever the hell this is goes thru his jacket pockets and runs their fingers thru his hair. Someone pokes and prods at his ears, nose, and mouth. Light touches all over his head and shoulders. His hair and scalp are thoroughly examined. Fingers tug at his earlobes, something brushes against his eyelids. He can't even blink. They push up his left pants leg and touch and remove the silver knife from the leather ankle sheath. They turn his jeans pockets inside out, and damn it, he thinks to himself, that better not be somebody coping a feel below his waist.

He feels a gentle, affectionate nuzzling sensation moving down the side of his face, then lips nibble at his chin.

His vision clears in a snap.

"Hey, you."

It's Cassie. She smiles at him, kisses the tip of his nose playfully. She looks _magnificent_. Her long curly hair, the color of cinnamon, perfectly frames her heart shaped face. He longs to touch her smooth brown skin, lovingly, deeply, kiss her full mouth. She takes his breath away each and every time he sees her, but...

This..._thing_...isn't her.

Still unable to move a muscle, Dean stares back at her, a feeling of dread uncurling at the base of his spine. If she's _here_, then she isn't real. And this is gonna get bad. Real bad. Someone or something was able to get inside his head and pull this image out, to use against him.

Dean can't do anything but lay there, breathing shallowly, unblinking, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He feels something loosen around his head and shoulders, and gets an overwhelming sense of Sam's presence somewhere in the room. He can feel Sam's lungs labor inside his chest, and he sees a tall blonde woman leaning over his brother. Her smile is a cruel thin slash across her pale face, and she strokes Sam's face with abnormally long fingers that Dean knows only too well. Sam is asleep or unconscious, and either way he's not having a peaceful time of it, either.He grimaces and moans, jerking his head away from her touch. She takes his chin between her thumb and forefinger. She's searches Sam's face with her unnatural reddish gold eyes, eagerly awaiting some sort of reaction, and Dean suddenly realizes what it is.

He sends the thought out there, filled with all the darkness and anger he can throw behind it:_ Don't you dare cry, Sam. Don't you give that bitch the satisfaction of one damn tear..._

Dean sees the blonde's head snap up and around, and she stares right at him, eyes blazing.

_Who's your daddy now, bi'atch? _he thinks at her._ How d'ya like me now?_

The snarkiness and his satisfaction over payback (no matter how brief) is short-lived. Dean feels his throat suddenly close up painfully. He'd claw at his throat with his hands if he could, but the brain-body connection is still shot to hell, and he still can't move.

_Get your damn hands off him, you lousy bitch!_

_Sa-Sammy? _

_Dean?_

_Wow, Sammy cursed_, Dean thinks dimly, bemused by lack of oxygen to the brain. _That's my boy…_

Black spots form at the edge of his vision. The pain in his chest is unbearable. He makes a high, thin sound, desperately tries to pull air in thru his nose, but it's not happening, nothing's working, and he can't even hear Sam anymore.

Dean takes one long, shuddering breath, and finds himself looking at Cassie again. He has no memory of what happened only moments before. Dean can't look away from her eyes; he feels like he's falling into them. They're so bright and deep, all maroon and golden swirling highlights. He feels lightheaded.

He blinks.

He hears the dry papery sound his eyelids make as they move down and back up. His eye line shifts slightly. He's not looking directly at her, but at a point in space over her left shoulder, and that's when he sees what she really looks like...

Long dark hair. Pale complexion. Full lips set in a knowing sneer.

The female vampire that John Winchester nailed with the crossbow arrow smeared with dead man's blood.

"Hello, handsome." Kate ruffles his short dark blonde hair with long cold fingers. "Remember me? Not so tough without daddy and that damn gun, are you?"

_Holy shit_, Dean whispers, in total shock. He's not even sure he's said it out loud.

He tries to move, he really does, and somehow he lifts his right arm from the table, reaching out above him, to God or to Heaven, Dean doesn't know which. He thinks of Sam, and actually lurches halfway off the table before she slams him back down, hard. The back of his head thumps against the wood and his teeth click together painfully. With a muffled groan he tries to arch his back and push off with his feet but she pins his hips down, pulls his arm back down to his side, pressing him back down onto the table.

She nips at his chin with sharp jagged teeth, laughs when he grunts at the pain. She pulls his shirt open so hard buttons fly off, and slices his t shirt open with one vicious swipe of her fingernails. She kisses the hard muscles of his stomach and chest, and then she puts her hand on his stomach and digs in with her sharp nails.

Dean clamps his mouth shut in a thin hard line, desperately trying not to give her the satisfaction of hearing him scream out. He makes a choked-off, pain-filled noise that makes Kate smile anyway. He coughs and his lips and chin are coated with his own blood.

Kate's head snakes up and around and she captures Dean's mouth with hers, and roughly licks the blood from his skin. Her tongue feels like sandpaper. His body is so tense, his muscles feel like they're vibrating. His hands at his sides are balled into fists.

"Don't play hard to get with me, darlin'," Kate licks her lips, whispers in Dean's ear. "It's okay, baby, just relax." She traces the outline of his ear with her tongue. He flinches, and she laughs.

"You're gonna feel sooo good after this, I promise..."

She bends her head to him, and she's gentle, at first. He fights the urge to kiss her back.

She's tasting him, savoring the _aliveness_ of him, the coppery sweetness of his blood,the tautness and warmth of his smooth young skin, the strength in his trembling muscles. She presses into his mouth with too much force, rubbing the skin raw, pulling at his lips, thrusting her tongue between his teeth. At one point she clamps his nostrils shut with her mouth; it's as though she's trying to force him to inhale _her_. He gasps, tries to suck in ragged gulps of air, and every time he tries to breathe, whether it's from his nose or mouth, Kate is right there. She's dead air, no pulse, no breath sounds, and Dean can't get away from her. From the feel of her mouth on his skin he's pretty sure that the bitch is smiling as she does it.

She pushes the collar of his leather jacket down around his shoulders, opens up his ripped denim shirt and tee shirt to expose his neck and shoulder. Her icy touch raises goosebumps on his skin. Long slender fingers grip his head, turn it slightly to the side to expose his neck.

She's careful not to touch the amulet he wears around his neck, but it doesn't stop her, and it hasn't stopped her yet.

She licks the side of his neck in one long stroke.

Dean feels cold breath and sharp teeth tease and nip at the soft thin skin there _–No, please, it can't end like this–not like this–_hismind screams and when she bites down his blood flows like a river over his neck and shoulder. He can feel her mouth hungrily suckle against his skin and he's instantly aroused. Instead of pulling away he leans into her and the absolute worst part is that he can't stop himself, wouldn't stop himself even if he could…


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story so far! I apologize for the big delay in updating: I've had to deal with the neighbors from hell at home, and stupid has broken out at work. As a result I'm feeling a little mean, and this story is gonna take a dark turn, so I hope you enjoy it.

The Tom Blake character was inspired by actor Michael Madsen. I'm still a big fan of his short-lived tv show "Vengeance Unlimited"some years back. As a matter of fact, I lifted his line about "Touched By An Angel" directly from the show.

**Chapter 4. Dead Day Afternoon**

_Don't you ask me why and when,_

_I will never tell,_

_Life was so much stranger then,_

_But that's all Gone to Hell._

_(Motorhead, All Gone to Hell)_

The bank looks just like the one they cased in Tucson, Arizona: small, fake marble everywhere, large glass windows. Customers are everywhere, people bustling back and forth in the noon time rush to conduct business on their lunch hour, and Dean stands in the middle of the lobby trying to blend in with the crowd.

Through the large glass windows he can see cars moving back and forth in the streets. Blue skies, bright desert sunlight. Normal everyday stuff.

Dean's gotten used to weird happening in broad open daylight. His only reaction is to look around, and shrug his shoulders. He refuses to let himself consider what that says about his mental state of mind. It's one of the requirements of the job, he thinks, and leaves it at that.

Across the way, Sam's leaning on one of the customer service counters, having a fine old time chatting up a tall, slim black woman who is obviously enjoying his attention. Sam smiles at her, all bright eyed, long limbed and relaxed, and that's fine, but that sure in the hell wasn't the way Sam looked the last time Dean saw him.

"Hey, Bud. Good to see you again," a voice behind Dean rumbles, and he turns around and sees Tom Blake, one of his father's friends.

One of his father's _dead_ friends.

Blake's standing there smiling, looking just as hale and hearty as he did before he walked out of that First Federated Bank in New Orleans and smack into a hail of police bullets. He's dressed in a black business suit and tie, white shirt, so he looks normal enough, but the duffle bag on his back and the wicked looking assault rifle slung over one shoulder does seem a little alarming, especially in a bank.

Dean blinks slowly. "Am I dead?"

"Nope, not yet."

"Oh." Dean cocks his head to one side, grimaces as he rubs his neck. That spot between his neck and shoulder hurts like a son of a bitch. He raises an eyebrow at Blake. "But _you're_ dead."

"As a doornail." Blake agrees, nodding. "Excessive consumption of lead will do that for ya."

"Uh huh." Dean glances over at Sam, who's still mightily working his puppy-dog charms on Miss Thang. Ordinarily Dean would just stand there, grin and enjoy the show, but something about this just isn't right. Blake sees the frown on his face and takes him by the arm.

"Come on, walk with me. Your brother's okay for now. We can talk while I do this."

Blake walks over to one of the tellers with a look on his face that clearly says _time to give it up, bitch_. He raises the assault rifle, pushes the duffel bag over the counter, and the teller starts shoveling bundles of money into the duffel.

Dean scans the room for the security guard. The guard's a tall blonde dude, young, no pot belly, looks fit. Probably washed out of the police department for some reason and decided the next best thing would be work as an armed rent-a-cop. The guard gets up and starts walking towards them, and Dean backs up, cursing under his breath, pulls his pistol from his waistband.

The guard walks right by, doesn't even glance at them, and goes over to the Commercial Accounts teller, leans on her counter and asks her what time she goes on lunch break..

Nobody notices.

Nobody notices a damned thing.

Dean stands there feeling foolish. He could jump up on the counter and strip down to his underwear, dance an Irish jig and nobody would freaking notice. Blake turns around just as Dean lowers the gun and tucks it back in his waistband. He laughs like hell at the gun and the startled look on Dean's face.

"Aw, that's cute, Winchester. Still trigger happy, huh? You coulda helped us rob that bank, but as I recall John wouldn't let you."

Dean growls at him.

Blake shrugs. "Listen, junior, we don't have time to stand around and jaw about old times. My employer wants me to give you this." He turns and sticks his hand out. Dean hesitates, finally sticks his hand out. He peers at the object in his palm. Hard and round, it looks like a marble.

A freakin' marble the color of an eggplant, a deep dark purple.

"What the hell is it?"

"It's an antidote for that spell Azareth hit you boys with. There's just enough for one person."

"_One_ person?"

Blake cuffs Dean upside the head. "Come on, work with me, Dean. I know you're smarter than you let on." The younger man glares at him, rubs his head. "Your family must've really pissed off the guys I work for. That's the bad news. The good news is they can't stand that blonde witch-bitch, either. So they decided to fuck with all three of you at the same time. One dose of antidote. The real deal. For you or your brother. Not both. You guys get to chose."

"And why the hell should I believe you?"

"Believe it or don't. I don't care which," Blake grumbles. "I'm supposed to give this to you. I gave it to you. Sometimes the major players like to interfere with each other. This is one of those times. So before you say anything else, remember, kid," he winks at Dean, "this _ain't_ no rescue."

Dean slips the marble into his jacket pocket. He feels damned stupid about even holding on to the damned thing, but he's too friggin' tired to fight with an hallucination over one stupid detail. His neck hurts.

The duffel is finally filled up with cash, and Blake grins, swings it onto his back. He smiles and winks at the teller. He puts an arm around Dean's shoulders and they start walking towards the door.

Right then and there Dean takes one look out the door at the street and stops dead in his tracks. He grabs Blake's arm, backs up, turns halfway around looking for Sam.

The street is filled with SWAT teams, heavily armed cops, and squad cars, all arranged in a semi-circle, all crouched behind open car doors and emergency vehicles. Every weapon is pointed at the entrance.

All the cops' eyes are totally black.

Blake laughs. "Oh, it's just a little something I have to go thru every once in a while. Don't worry about it." He claps Dean on the shoulder and raises the assault rifle. "Say hi to your Dad for me."

For once in his life, Dean is speechless. No smart-ass remarks. He's got nothing. The best he can do is stand there and keep his mouth from hanging open.

Blake walks forward, turns, his face split into a wide sardonic grin, and says, "Remember that show, 'Touched By An Angel'?"

Dean nods.

"Well, this ain't it. You gotta choose, Bud. You or your brother."

He turns and walks out the door.

Dean genuinely liked Blake when he was alive. He might have been a career criminal, but Blake was one of the few people who could hang around Papa Winchester, disagree with him, and never lose his cool, or try to shoot the elder Winchester. Blake never talked down to Dean because he was younger, and he always seemed to be genuinely interested in whatever Dean had to say. When Dean heard the news that Blake had been killed he actually became depressed, and the sure cure for that was to track down a murderous phantom dog and slaughter the evil bastard.

Dean has absolutely no desire to see this. He flinches when he hears the big guns open up outside. His face is set in a tightly held grimace, and if he hears screaming over the gunfire he thinks he might very well lose it. He turns quickly on his heel and something slams into his face and rocks his head back, hard.

_...son of a bitch..._

While he doesn't lose consciousness all the way things do get slow and fuzzy. Dean actually takes two wobbly steps backwards. He feels his legs fold up underneath his body, and on the way down he looks up into the totally black eyes of a uniformed cop holding his rifle like a club. The cop is grinning like a maniac.

_This is seriously fucked up_, Dean thinks to himself, and he feels his ass thump onto the floor.

He grunts, and feels his vision blur. He doesn't like not being able to see, especially with Officer Friendly standing in front of him with a loaded rifle and no qualms about using it. Rubbing at his eyes and shaking his head doesn't clear his vision, and he starts to panic, especially when he hears movement in front of him.

"Dean?"

Dean blinks rapidly. He swings his head around in the direction of the voice but his eyes aren't working and he can't see a damned thing. "Sam?"

"Yeah."

Dean feels a slight headache start at his right temple, and he sighs. "I feel like shit."

"You look like shit too, dude, " Sam drawls.

"Thanks for the update, Katie Couric." Frowning, he stares at his brother, struggles to focus his eyes. His vision improves when three blurred Sams dissolve into just one Sam-sized blur. "You don't look much better from where I'm sitting."

He squints as he looks around the cabin. "Damn, they brought us back here," he mutters to himself. He looks down at his clothes, and expects to see them all ripped to pieces and splattered with his own blood. Dean's surprised to find everything in place. Not even a button missing.

Sam sits there, back against the foot of the bed, shoulders slumped, hands cradled limply in his lap. His long legs are spread out in front of him.

"They used Jessica on you, didn't they?"

He sees the pained look on his younger brother's face as Sam nods and looks away.

"You?"

"It was Cassie at first. Then...that vampire chick. The one Dad nailed with the arrow."

"Why?"

"Why? They're fucking with us," Dean growls. "That's what this is. I am going to kill every Godforsaken fucker who has anything to do with this unholy fucking mess."

Sam gives a dry chuckle. "You used the F word three times in one sentence. Dude, I think that's a personal best for you."

Dean straightens up, despite the twinge in his lower back. "Well, it's a good solid word that perfectly fits this occasion," he says deadpan. He tries to stand up, but his body bitches about the change in position and his ass lands back on the floor with a thump. "I meant to do that," he mutters quietly.

It takes an effort to get on his hands and knees and crawl over to where Sam is.

As soon as he sits down next to Sam, Dean promptly cuffs him upside his shaggy head.

"Ow! What the hell was that for?"

"Damn it, Sam, didn't I tell you to leave? Why didn't you run? What part of 'go' did you not understand?"

Sam figures now is not the time to remind Dean that he was obviously incoherent at the time, but Sam also has to admit that Dean saying "go" _was _clear enough. He rubs the back of his head. "Oh, you were serious?"

Dean looks at him, notices how pale Sam is, sees the dark circles under his eyes, and whacks him upside the head again, this time a much lighter tap.

"I said leave. No sense in both of us getting snatched."

"Would **you** have left **me**?"

"Don't change the subject. We're not talking about me, we're talking about you." Dean snaps, which translates to "Hell, no!" and Sam knows it, too. Annoyed, Dean shifts uncomfortably.

"Hey look, this conversation is heading dangerously close to a damn chick flick moment, so let's drop it right now." He frowns and rolls his shoulders, then his back.

"What the hell– " Dean reaches back, underneath his jacket, and pulls the .45 pistol out of his waistband.

He and Sam stare at each other, warily. Dean pulls the clip on the weapon.

A full clip.

Dean sighs. "Yep. This just keeps getting better and better." He replaces the clip, puts the gun back in his waistband. He looks at his brother. "Nothing says 'Your ass is toast' better than the bad guys letting you have your fully loaded weapon, like nothing's gonna make any difference."

"Uh, I hate to be the one to mention this," Sam says slowly, "but in some ancient cultures it was common to lock two condemned men together in a cell with one weapon. The guards would take bets on who would win the fight." He looks around the cabin, frowns. "We're not locked in, though. I don't get it."

Dean nods. "Two men enter, one man leaves."

Sam looks at him, puzzled.

"Mad Max, Beyond Thunderdome. Mel Gibson. Tina Turner." Sam finally gets it, and nods. Dean snorts, rolls his eyes. "And that's the value of a college education for you."

"Dean, that's not exactly the same scenario. You're a jackass, you know that?" Sam exclaims angrily. He doesn't know why he's angry.

Dean can't resist sniping back. "Yeah, I'm a jackass whose dummy brother doesn't know the meaning of the word 'go'. You ready for your close-up, Tina?"

They sit in silence for a minute or so, and avoid looking at each other. Dean rolls his neck for what seems to be the fifth or sixth time, which for the fifth or sixth time doesn't seem to help. Sam lowers his head and stares at his hands in his lap. His hair hangs in his eyes.

Sam breaks the silence first: "Hey look man, you're right. I should have left like you told me to..."

Dean waves a hand dismissively. "Jeez, dude, step away from the guilt. What's done is done. What did the one that grabbed me look like?"

"It was a girl."

"Uh...a what?"

Sam grins. "A woman. Tall. Blonde. Young. Reddish gold eyes."

Dean leans forward, smirks. "Was she naked?"

"No, you pervert. She was dressed in a long purplish black dress. As soon as she touched you you blacked out, like she gave you an electric shock or something."

Without realizing it, Dean frowns, reaches a hand up and rubs his chest over his heart. He'd had enough of electricity when he was accidentally electrocuted with that rawhead several months back. His gaze becomes distant with that memory, then sharpens again. "Uh, she got me from behind, that's why–"

"Dude, even if you'd had your gun out it wouldn't have made any difference. She did something to you before she even touched you. Had you on your knees, Rambo. She handled you like a rag doll, you jerk."

"Yeah, whatever, bitch." Dean sits up straighter, all big brother and boss alpha male, and stares Sam directly in the eye. "And apparently she handled _your_ happy ass right after that."

"Well, yeah." Sam says somewhat sheepishly.

o(o)o

As soon as he feels steady enough on his feet, Dean prowls around the room, aiming the EMF meter into corners. He's got his pearl handled .45 out and the weight of the gun feels good in his hand. Sam sits on his bed, watching him, frowning. Dean checks the bathroom, stands in the doorway sweeping the small room with the EMF and the .45 is slightly raised, just in case.

"Hey, after they finish make sure they flush, all right?" Sam says.

Dean cocks his head to one side, keeps an eye on the indicator needle. "Bathroom humor from Joe College. Gee, I don't know, that's kind of low-brow for you, isn't it?"

"Nope!" Sam actually giggles and collapses on the bed, laughing.

Dean stops and stares at him, then slowly shakes his head. He figures that after all they've gone thru, Sam's moods are swinging all over the damn place. That's emotional stuff, and Dean doesn't really know how to deal with that. He can stitch up a wound, and set a broken arm, but the chick flick stuff, well, **that** he'd rather not deal with. Push come to shove, though, he'll let Sam have his chick flick moment so they can move past it. He'll have to.

What if that bitch comes back and they have to fight her off?

Not that the first time went all that fucking well.

He sweeps the room with the EMF meter and gets nothing, not a squawk from the damned thing.

Now for the front door. Still open. The Impala sits gleaming blackly out in the noonday sun. It's broad open daylight, as they say, which sure in the hell doesn't make him feel any safer.

He sweeps the doorframe and all spaces in between with the meter. Still nothing. He checks the readings, thinks at first that it isn't even working, but it is. He should know, he built the damned thing from scratch.

It's telling him that there's nothing there, but the hair standing on the back of his neck is telling him otherwise.

Sam snorts out a laugh. "Dude, you look _so _stupid doing that."

Dean turns and gives his an icy stare, then steadies himself and steps out thru the door.

The only thing that happens is he has to quickly tuck the .45 under his jacket as one of their neighbors walks by. Dean gives the puzzled woman what he hopes is a normal smile, and apparently it is. She smiles back warmly as he stands there, every muscle in his body still tense.

He takes a deep breath to settle himself and walks back into the cabin.

Still nothing.

Sam is still sprawled across the bed, laughing his lanky ass off.

"Oh-kay then. That was a whole lotta nothing." Dean tucks the .45 back into his waistband and then rubs the back of his neck with his hand. He glances at Sam. "Dude, it wasn't _that_ funny."

"Hell it wasn't!" Sam snorts.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Dean mutters. He walks over to his bed and sits down. Out comes his cell phone, and he starts scrolling thru the numbers.

Sam stops laughing, suddenly alert. "What are you doing?"

"Calling Dad."

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"You don't need to call him. We can handle this ourselves."

Dean shoots Sam a look that plainly says _What the fuck is your problem, dude?_ as he scrolls down to John's number. He doesn't react as Sam leans in close. This is his younger brother, for God's sake, it's _Sam_, so Dean doesn't look up in time to see Sam's eyes change to a murky yellow. He doesn't see Sam's mouth fill with hundreds of sharp, jagged teeth.

The needle on the EMF meter swings over into the red; the device shrieks like a damned soul.

Sam leans over and sinks his teeth into Dean's arm.

o(o)o

A/N: Instead of waiting I decided to post this now as a thank you to everyone who reviewed so far. I really appreciate your comments!

Chapter 5 (and possibly Chapter 6 too) will be posted by next weekend. I have to work on these bad boys because they're going to be really nasty. Once you read them you'll see exactly what I mean.


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